


Black coffee two sugars

by Apuzzlingprince



Series: Witcher Fanfics [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-16 05:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13630017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: A man Regis recognised as the famed White Wolf would come into his coffee shop every day at four, order a black coffee with two sugars, and situate himself at the corner-most table with a pile of manilla envelopes and that days newspaper. He didn't try to engage the staff in conversation, nor did he pay the other patrons any mind. He would sit in that corner for three hours and do nothing but read.Regis had thought, at first, that he had come to scope out the location of his next job. He had good reason to be nervous, as the establishment was not only owned by a vampire, but entirely run by them.





	Black coffee two sugars

**Author's Note:**

> Every fandom needs at least one fic featuring a coffee shop, right? Well, here it is! Let me know what you think!

Regis was able to develop a rapport with all of his regulars. Even the most shy and taciturn of them warmed to him over time.

There was only one exception.

A man Regis recognised as the famed White Wolf would come into his coffee shop every day at four, order a black coffee with two sugars, and situate himself at the corner-most table with a pile of manilla envelopes and that days newspaper. He didn't try to engage the staff in conversation, nor did he pay the other patrons any mind. He would sit in that corner for three hours and do nothing but read.

Regis had thought, at first, that he had come to scope out the location of his next job. He had good reason to be nervous, as the establishment was not only owned by a vampire, but entirely run by them. He had set it up as a rehabilitation centre. Vampires who wanted a change of lifestyle came here to learn how to be functioning members of society, rather than the mindless, blood-thirsty scourge they were often thought of as. Many came and went, moving onto better work or higher education (often with Regis’ encouragement, as Regis wanted to see them succeed), but his primary staff still lingered decades after the conception of the idea of a coffee shop rehabilitation centre. Orianna and Dettlaff had been with him since the beginning, and they would likely be with him until the very end, too. Should there ever be an end.

But if the witcher knew any of this, he didn’t give indication. He just ordered his coffee and sat at the corner-most table with his newspaper and manilla envelopes, day after day. None of his customers attempted to engage the witcher in conversation despite expressing hushed interest in him while at the counter, and some of his regulars were even relieved when the witcher finally left. With how intense and uncommunicative the witcher was, he couldn’t entirely blame them, though he knew many of them held unfavourable beliefs about witcher’s due to the hate-filled literature that had been in circulation in the past few decades. Even without the unsociable behaviour, few people had positive things to say about witcher’s.

Regis himself was uncomfortable with the witcher’s presence; he didn’t like how it put Dettlaff on edge or how it compelled some of his employees to slink out of sight, but he couldn’t exactly ask the witcher to leave, now could he?

Or, well… he _could_ , but he had never needed to evict a customer before and he didn’t particularly _want_ to do it. The witcher hadn’t done anything except order coffee and sit in a corner; it felt mean spirited to ask him to leave just for that. On the other hand, the longer he was there, the greater the chance of discovery was, and Regis really didn't like the effect the witcher had on his newest and youngest employee, who would start shaking whenever the witcher approached the counter.

On the witcher's twenty first consecutive visit, Regis finally bit the bullet and approached the witcher's table.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, folding his hands behind his back and smiling genially. “You’ve been sitting quietly for quite some time. Every day for the past three weeks, in fact.”

The witcher looked up at him. “Did I drop a coin or something?”

“Pardon?”

“Just wondering why you’re bothering me."

Unsocial _and_ antisocial. Regis' hopes of having a productive conversation rapidly fell.

“Well, I suppose I’m just curious regarding why you would sit there,” said Regis, keeping his tone soft and chipper. “I take pride in this establishment, but I’m aware that it isn’t the most comfortable or quiet of places, and certainly not the sort of place one would usually sit for three hours. There is a park a short walk away. Most choose to go there.”

“I’m fine like this,” said the witcher, shrugging. “Thanks for your concern.” He returned to thumbing through a manilla envelope. Though it was currently upside down from where Regis was standing, he could see that it was a contract for a swarm of Nekkers. Regis had heard through the grapevine that a few of them had taken up residence in a subway station.

"Are you certain you wouldn't like to sit in the park?" asked Regis, and he thought this a gentle enough hint that the witcher was overstaying his welcome. "It is a lovely day," he added.

"No," said the witcher, not even gracing him with a glance. "I'd like you to take a walk, though. Preferably away from my table."

Regis opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned and walked away. When he reached the counter, Orianna leaned over and asked, “How did it go?”

“Terrible,” said Regis. “He was rather rude.”

“Witcher’s aren’t the friendliest of people,” said Orianna, laughing. “I’m sure you tried your best, Emiel. Don’t take it too hard.”

He settled into place behind the counter and absentmindedly straightened a napkin holder. “I’ll have to wait a few days before trying again," murmured Regis. "He may ignore me if I approach him too soon.” 

“You could just tell him to leave,” suggested Orianna.

Regis cast her a frown. “If you believe it is that easy, then I give you full permission to do it yourself.”

Orianna fell silent after that, scurrying away to help Dettlaff in the kitchen.

* * *

His next attempt didn’t go any better than the first. When the witcher came up to the counter and ordered his drink, Regis gestured to the foam cups they kept on hand for leaving customers and asked, “Would you like a takeaway cup?”

The witcher glanced at them. “Don’t I have to be taking my drink away for that?”

“Yes,” said Regis. “I noticed you have fewer envelopes on your person today and thought perhaps you would be indulging in a walk or taking a seat in the park I mentioned. I believe they're hosting a community barbecue today. I've never attended one, myself, but my customers have told me they are highly enjoyable.”

“You certainly talk incessantly when given the opportunity,” said the witcher, placing his money on the counter. “Just a mug.”

Through some miracle, Regis managed to keep his expression amicable as he prepared the witcher’s coffee. Never before had a customer complained about his friendly chatter. He didn’t know how to respond. He thought it awful unfair considering he hadn’t said a word beyond ‘hello, how are you’ and ‘have a nice day’ to the witcher for three weeks straight prior to his attempts to get the witcher to leave, but the witcher, as unpleasant as he might have been, was still a customer, and he couldn’t chastise a customer for being rude.

He handed the witcher his drink. In a mug, as requested.

“Have a nice day.”

“Yeah, you too,” said the witcher dismissively, seating himself in the corner.

When he entered the staff room later that evening, he could not help looking sour.

“Oh dear," said Orianna, smiling wide enough to show off the points of her teeth. "I take it your second attempt didn’t go well?”

“He more or less called me annoying,” said Regis as he dropped into a chair and selected one of the mini quiches Dettlaff had brought in from home. He often brought in treats to share among his co-workers. “I’m uncertain of how to proceed.”

“Like I said before: tell him he needs to leave.”

“At this point, I doubt he would if I did,” said Regis miserably. "We may have to consider changing the roster so the young ones aren't on shift when he is present. It's not an ideal solution, and hopefully it will only be temporary, but we can't force the man out if he doesn't want to leave."

"This is your property," said Orianna. "You can, in fact, do that."

Regis shook his head. "And if he refuses to leave? If he causes a scene? If we have to call the police? Trying to make him leave against his will may be more detrimental than allowing him to stay." 

No longer amused, Orianna's expression turned disapproving. "All this trouble for one person," she muttered. 

* * *

The following day, the witcher came in carrying even fewer manilla envelopes. He said nothing to Regis beyond 'black coffee, two sugars' before seating himself at his usual table and diving into his contracts. Perhaps he thought extending Regis a greeting would be too close to encouraging conversation. The thought depressed Regis; while Regis knew he could get long-winded, he’d never had someone openly dislike that quality in him before.

But he wasn't about to give up on the witcher. Over four hundred years of life had given him an enviable resolve.

“I’ve never seen you select any of our confectioneries,” he said as he approached the witcher’s table, extending him a blueberry muffin wrapped in a napkin. “I thought you might enjoy a sample.”

“Not intending to buy any,” said the witcher, accepting the small olive branch nonetheless. He took a bite and chewed. “Thanks anyway. Tastes good.”

How could someone convey themselves in so few words? The man didn’t even use pronouns.

“I’m please to hear it,” said Regis, seating himself opposite the man. He was looking at a Wyvern contract today. Those very rarely wandered into the city; someone must have tried to smuggle one in to sell on the illegal pet market again, which happened startlingly often despite how little grey matter one would have to possess to think a giant omnivorous lizard would be a good pet.

“Do you get contracts like that often?” he asked conversationally, gesturing to the papers.

The witcher took a sip of his coffee before answering. “No. They aren’t far off extinction.”

“Almost a shame, isn’t it?”

Regis realised, at this point, that he wasn’t even trying to get the witcher to leave anymore; he just wanted the man to _engage_.

“Not really,” said the witcher. “Less money in my pockets, but they wreck more havoc than most monsters when they get into built up areas. The largest death toll event in the city was caused by a Wyvern.”

Regis was delighted. This was the most the witcher had said to him in almost a month. He’d been at the point where he’d wondered if the man was even capable of stringing together a full sentence.

“Oh, yes. They invaded the sewer system, didn't they? Interesting that they were able to subsist down there, but also terribly tragic. I read an article on it.” He’d been present for the event, in actuality, but Regis wouldn’t betray his age by going into further detail. It had happened almost a century ago, before humans started building walls to keep out the beasts. They still got in, of course, but to a much lesser extent, and it was usually human intervention that led to them breaching the walls.

“Mhm,” said the witcher. A noncommittal response, but Regis pushed on regardless.

“The Basilisk seems to be more populous and dangerous, these days. They’ve adapted better. Surprising, considering they’re the fuzzier of the Draconid family. But I’m sure you know all this, being a witcher.”

The witcher examined his papers a moment more, then looked up at Regis. “I don’t want to be rude, but you’re talking too much again.”

Regis wanted to point out that saying one didn’t want to be rude didn’t make his comment any less of a social faux pas, but restrained himself.

“I see,” said Regis, put-out. After three weeks of serving the witcher, he had hoped he would receive more than a couple of sentences of conversation. “My apologies. I will leave you be.”

The witcher said nothing.

As he vacated the table, he fought against his disappointment. It was silly to be so affected by one person. It wasn’t as though this was the first time he had encountered a person like Geralt; he'd been alive for over four hundred years and he'd spent enough of those in the company of humans to know how discourteous they could be. Rude people were usually a lot more vitriolic, in fact. Still, he wished he understood what he was doing wrong. He’d never failed to engage with a human before.

Later, during a lull in activity, Dettlaff came into the staff room to find him sitting pensively at the table. His friend extended him a sympathetic look and claimed the chair opposite, hands folded neatly in front of him. Out of all of them, Dettlaff was the least in tune with humans, but he was brilliant with other vampires and highly popular among the bruxa (not that he was aware of this fact). If one wanted a sympathetic ear, Dettlaff was typically who they would go to.

“You are not having any luck with the witcher, I see,” said Dettlaff. “You shouldn’t let it bother you. I have not heard good stories about that man.”

“Stories?” said Regis, curiosity piqued.

“My dear Rhena told me a few when I mentioned that he frequented our establishment.”

"Ah, Rhena," said Regis, a touch derisively. There were few people he liked less than that woman. "I will have to take what you tell me with a grain of salt." He restrained any further comments he would have liked to make. While Regis didn’t approve of Dettlaff’s turbulent relationship with Rhena and had told Dettlaff as much in the past, he had long since learned the only thing criticising her did was upset Dettlaff. Dettlaff was willing to help other vampires with their problems, but not receive help for his own; he outright refused to acknowledge he even _had_ problems and that Rhena was one of them.

“You’ve heard the name ‘Butcher of Blaviken’ before, I’m sure,” said Dettlaff, undeterred by Regis' hostility towards his beloved. “And our local witcher just happens to be the one who enacted that massacre.”

“I have far more lives on my conscience,” said Regis, oddly defensive.

Dettlaff spread his hands. “I am simply trying to explain why you needn’t exert yourself on the witcher. I don’t want you to hurt yourself, my friend, and subjecting yourself to that mans presence doesn’t seem to be doing you any favours. I suggest you tell him to leave and be done with it, or allow me to do it for you.”

“There's no need,” said Regis. “I've almost managed to change the roster so only you, Orianna, and I are here for his visits, and we did manage a pleasant, if short conversation today. I simply need break the ice.”

Dettlaff shook his head in an empathetic fashion. “You’ve been trying to do that for almost a month, Regis.”

“And I will continue to try until I have succeeded,” said Regis with growing determination. “If I can spend fifty years reforming myself, I can certainly manage this.”

* * *

“You know,” said Regis the next time the witcher was at his counter. “You never provided me a name.” He was already well aware this man was Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, and to some, the Butcher of Blaviken, but it didn’t feel right to refer to him by his name without it first being offered.

The witcher tapped his crowns on the counter while he waited. “It’s Geralt,” he said.

“Lovely name,” said Regis, taking his time with preparing the coffee machine. “Mine is Emiel Regis.” He had long since dropped the 'Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy' part of his name, as few people had names of such length these days.

“I’d have to be rather dense not to know your name, considering you wear a name badge every day,” said Geralt.

“But it is more pleasant to have a proper introduction, is it not?”

The witcher gazed at him, openly curious. The crowns stopped tapping. “Why would we need a ‘proper introduction’?”

“Well, you have been coming into my establishment every day for a month,” replied Regis, placing a mug under the coffee machine and preparing the foamer. “I thought it prudent to offer an exchange of names, as we will likely be seeing each other often in the future.”

“But you don’t like me,” said the witcher. “You tried to get rid of me.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Regis. “Is this another plan? Think that forcing conversation will drive me away? You aren’t the first to try.”

The sudden movement and hostile tone of voice startled Regis enough to jostle the mug and send it plummeting to the floor, leaving a splash of brown on his apron and hands. A normal person would have been screaming in pain; Regis merely winced at the mess he’d created and leaned down to pick up pieces of shattered ceramic.

“No, not at all,” he said quickly, tossing bits of mug into the small bin they kept behind the counter. “I’m not trying to drive you out. I’m merely trying to be friendly.”

“Are you alright?” asked the witcher. “Your hands-“

“They’re fine,” said Regis, flustered. Or as flustered as he could get, anyway, which wasn’t very flustered; he was much too old and much too experienced to partake in shows of embarrassment.

When the floor was clean, he wiped his hands dry on his apron and resumed making Geralt’s coffee. He would mop up the rest of the mess later.

“Didn’t mean to startle you," said the witcher, now sounding impeccably awkward.

“It’s quite alright. Most of the coffee hit my apron.” With sticky fingers, Regis set the machine again. He waited until he could turn and look the witcher in the eye before he continued. “If I made you feel unwelcome here, I apologise. I will not pretend that wasn’t my intention, initially.” He paused, folding his hands behind his back. The witcher was staring at them with a queer intensity. “But I no longer wish you to leave, hence my offering sweets and conversation. What few words we have exchanged, I have enjoyed.” He lowered his head shamefully. “However, you have every right to be upset and I understand if you do not wish to continue speaking to me.”

The witcher cast a glance beyond the counter. “I know why you did it. Your employees are afraid of me. I see the younger ones shake.” He smiled sadly. “I was comfortable here and did not want to leave, but perhaps I was being selfish.”

The way he spoke, so weary and tired, yielding to a situation he had been put in dozens, if not hundreds of times, made Regis feel even worse. Monsters had good reason to be afraid of witcher’s, being their quarry, but he knew monsters weren’t the only ones who were afraid. Witcher’s were not understood, existing in an age where technology reigned as a solution to people’s problems, and so they were rejected.

“I’ll get it to go,” said the witcher, gesturing to the largest of the cups.

Regis reluctantly retrieved one. “You’re welcome to stay. I think I would find your company enjoyable, and you mine, if we gave each other a chance.”

“I’m sure we would,” said Geralt. “But I have imposed on your hospitality long enough.”

The witcher left without further preamble, taking his manilla envelopes and newspaper with him.

* * *

The witcher returned to his shop every day at the same time he always had, but only to buy his customary coffee and leave. It registered to Regis around his fourth visit that Geralt would only approach the counter if Regis was behind it, even if there were other employees available to take his order. If Regis wasn’t present or was occupied with a task, he would sit at a table and wait until Regis was free. Orianna or Dettlaff could have taken his order with ease, and had done so in the past, numerous times, but he would only allow Regis to fulfil his very simple order and Regis kind of... liked it. It, stupidly enough, made him feel _good_.

The witcher grew more talkative each time Regis prompted conversation. They would talk about work, hobbies, friends, and family (his sole family was an adopted daughter, who Geralt loved deeply and kept pictures of on his person). Outside of witchering, Geralt like to build things; he had renovated his best friend Dandelion’s house a few years back and now harboured a strong desire to build his own house from scratch. When he wasn't fantasising about building his own house, he watched sit-coms and construction shows, and stated that his favourite show was something called 'Brooklyn Nine-Nine'. Unfortunately, as coffee never took more than a few minutes to make, they never managed a conversation long enough for Regis’ satisfaction. He was always left wishing for something longer and more substantial. He even tried selling sweets to the witcher just to prolong their meetings, and though the witcher would occasionally buy a slice of caramel cake, he never did manage to grab more than a few extra seconds.

Somehow, Regis was even more troubled now than he had been when the witcher had been terrifying his staff on the daily.

“Didn’t quite get rid of him, I see,” commented Dettlaff as he joined Regis at his register. “But he hasn’t spent more than a few minutes here in two weeks. You did well.”

“It wasn’t my intention,” said Regis, running a hand through his neatly combed hair and making a mess of it. He had cut it short to make it easier to deal with, but his efforts had only succeeded in making it more unruly. “I had hoped to get to know him better. Instead, I made him decide he would be better off keeping himself scarce.”

Dettlaff regarded him curiously. “He frightens the young ones. And he may have figured out what we were, eventually.” Dettlaff leaned a hip against the counter, arms crossed. “Getting rid of him was only practical.”

“I’m aware. And I am still disappointed.”

“Strange,” murmured Dettlaff. “I felt it only practical to rid myself of Rhena, when first I met her. Upon getting to know her better, I changed my mind. Seems you’ve come to a similar conclusion.”

“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying…”

Dettlaff steepled his fingers, a hint of a smile on his lips. “What am I implying, Regis? Please, inform me. I’m quite confused.”

Regis shot him an unamused look. “I have no romantic inclinations toward the witcher. I merely wish to befriend him.”

“Befriending him might have been all I meant. Curious that you think of romance in such an innocuous context.”

“Innocuous.” Regis scoffed. “You know exactly what you are doing, and I will have none of it.”

“What am I doing?” asked Dettlaff, feigning innocence. 

“You know,” he said, shooing Dettlaff over to the other register and turning his back on him.

* * *

The next time the witcher came in and ordered his coffee, he _smiled_ at Regis, awkwardly and with too many teeth, like he didn’t quite know how to smile properly, and Regis had a terrible realisation: Dettlaff had been right.

He hadn't been in love with anyone in a good century. His last romantic interest had left him over his drinking habits and he had grieved that loss by drinking himself into an extended stupor, after which he had woken up in nine pieces and with a hangover that lasted roughly fifty years. Following that, he had occupied so much of his time with changing his habits and helping others change theirs that he simply hadn't had the time to maintain anything more than casual flings. 

Not only was he completely at a loss for how to pursue a romantic relationship after going so long without one, the fact the man was a witcher – someone often tasked with killing his brethren – complicated things even further. It would be foolish to attempt a romantic relationship when they were so clearly incompatible, but Regis found himself thinking about it with increasing regularity regardless.

The more they chatted, the more things Regis found to like about the witcher. His obvious intelligence, his dry sense of humour, his quiet, restrained laugh, his awkward smiles, and his pretty white hair and stunning eyes and calloused hands…

Regis considered allowing someone else to serve Geralt for a change so he could get a hold of himself, but he feared if he went out of his way to avoid the man, Geralt would notice and decide he was no longer wanted. He had already made that mistake once and he had no intention of letting it happen again. Especially now, knowing how he felt. He didn’t know what he would do if Geralt suddenly stopped dropping in; probably something irrational, if his past heartbreaks were anything to go by.

There was nothing Regis could do to fix their circumstances, nothing he could change. He could extend a tentative friendship to the witcher, and that was it. Anything more would endanger his staff, and he couldn’t do something so inconsiderate and selfish for the vague possibility that the witcher _wouldn’t_ immediately try to tear down his establishment upon finding out about his being a vampire.

It was hard not to grow despondent when you had fallen for someone you simply couldn’t have. Regis had never been very good at coping with heartache. Lacking any other distraction, he dove into his work.

His co-workers noticed his increased hours. And so did Geralt, after a while.

“You seem tired,” said Geralt, accepting his usual order of black coffee with two sugars.

“I’m always tired, Geralt,” said Regis with a tight-lipped smile. “Fatigue is a necessary part of running an efficient establishment.”

“More so than usual, I mean,” said Geralt. He sipped his drink, lingering at the counter. “Is something happening? Expansion?” His eyes lit up at the possibility of talking construction. “I have noticed the free block behind you.”

“I would have to buy it out, first, and I haven’t the funds,” said Regis. He had considered it; the staff room was deplorably small and customers had to go across the street if someone was occupying their sole bathroom, but they simply didn’t make enough to pay for the purchase of the building and the construction costs. That was fine, though. The coffee shop still functioned well in its current condition, and they had enough money left over at the end of each month to help house vampires that came to the coffee shop without a home. Regis had given out dozens of loans over the years. Some he had never received back, but he didn't mind as long as his brethren flourished.

“You could use some time off,” said Geralt. This was the longest he had remained standing at the counter. “An hour or two, during lunch.”

“My lunch breaks are thirty minutes.”

“Perhaps, as the owner, you could request a longer one.”

“I could, yes, but then I would likely spend my ‘hour or two’ sitting in this café feeling like I should be doing something productive.”

“Take a walk around the park,” suggested Geralt.

Regis shook his head. “I would bore of that very fast.”

“With company, you wouldn’t.”

It took Regis a moment to process exactly what the witcher was trying to do. “Pardon?” he said, anyway, wanting to make sure; he might’ve misheard.

“With company,” said Geralt, reaching into his pocket and handing Regis a piece of crumpled paper. It had a number scribbled on it. It looked as though the witcher had been hoarding it for a very long time…

Evidently Regis wasn’t the only interested party.

“You can call me to tell me the day.”

Regis slowly slipped the piece of paper into a pocket. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

The witcher appeared to deflate slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Alright.”

“But,” said Regis quickly, unable to help himself. “It will just be a walk, yes? A walk between – between friends.”

“A walk between friends,” repeated Geralt, somewhat sourly. “Gentlest I’ve ever been let down. I appreciate it.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m letting you down,” said Regis, casting a nervous glance at Orianna, who had taken up the adjacent register and was now arching her eyebrows at them. Clearly _Dettlaff_ had been _gossiping_. He would need to have a stern talk with him later. “I merely need time to consider what you’re offering,” he finished, a little lamely. He was having one of those rare moments where he couldn’t think of anything better to say.

“Alright,” said Geralt, finally withdrawing from the counter. “I won’t expect anything.”

Once the witcher had taken his leave, Regis turned to Orianna with a scowl. “Orianna, you cease giving me that look right now.”

“What look?” asked Orianna, persisting with her arched eyebrows.

Regis ran a hand over his face; _juveniles_.

* * *

It took him a week to muster up the courage to phone Geralt. He told him he would be available Wednesday for one hour. Geralt suggested they get crepes while at the park and Regis agreed. When he put down his phone – an ancient corded one – he sat staring into the distance for some time, consumed with both elation and anxiety.

 _Just a walk_ , he told himself. He would indulge himself, just a little. He had built up enough self-control over the years that he was certain he would be able to abandon the relationship should his identity as a vampire come in danger of being found out.

They met at noon exactly. Regis brought coffee: Geralt's usual drink from him, and a milkless, sugarless black for Regis; he wasn’t fond of sweet, nor milky drinks.

“Thanks,” said Geralt, taking a sip.

They walked side by side down the footpath, their arms jostling together every other step. Regis couldn’t have been happier.

“So, what was it that brought you to Novigrad, Geralt?” asked Regis as they strode past the mid-day pedestrian traffic. “It seems a strange city for a witcher to settle in. Fewer jobs here than there would be in, say, Vizima.”

“I go where I’m needed,” said Geralt. He peeled the lid off his cup and took a larger sip before he continued. “My daughter attends school nearby. Living here enables her to see me whenever she pleases.”

“I am not terribly familiar with the educational facilities around here, so forgive me if I am unfamiliar, but what school?”

“Thanedd.”

“The school for young sorceresses?”

“Mm. She doesn’t like it there much.”

“Then why does she attend?” asked Regis, growing ever curious. "There are plenty of other schools available to her."

“She _doesn’t_ attend. Truancy issues.”

“Oh dear.”

“She wants to be home schooled, so it wouldn't matter what school we enrolled her in. Her mother refuses. Doesn’t want to hinder her social development.”

Regis clucked his tongue and shook his head. “It is rare for children to enjoy school, from what I have seen. I am sure, when she is older, she will appreciate that education and her social connections.”

“Here’s hoping,” said Geralt, sliding one of his hands into a pocket, fumbling with change. The crepe stand wasn’t far away. “Maybe then she’ll finally stop sending me cryptic messages with yellow faces in them.”

Regis, who had never owned a phone with a screen, tried to envision what these yellow faces Geralt spoke of might have looked like. “My, that sounds unpleasant. You have my sympathy.”

“It’s not all bad,” he said, quirking a lip. “Parenthood, that is. Wouldn’t give it up now that I know what it’s like.”

Regis could relate, to an extent; he did feel somewhat paternal toward his younger employees. “I can tell you’re bursting to tell me all the wonders of parenthood, so go on, Geralt. As always, I wish to hear it.”

“Gladly.”

They reached the crepe stand after a lengthy spiel about Ciri’s accomplishments. Geralt ordered a strawberry and banana crepe, handing the owner more than enough crowns for the both of them, and Regis requested the same thing, sans the whipped cream and chocolate drizzle. Though he didn’t particularly enjoy processed sweets, he did like fruit.

Geralt took a big bite out of his and ended up with cream smeared on his philtrum. Chuckling, Regis took his face in hand and wiped it off with a thumb.

“I thought this was a walk between ‘friends’," said Geralt, arching an eyebrow as Regis' hand withdrew from his jaw. It was a very nice jaw. Solid and strong.

“That was a perfectly _friendly_ gesture,” said Regis.

“Mhm. Sure.”

They strode along the circumference of the park, glancing periodically at the families gathered within. It was always busy at this time of day. Guardians would bring their children to the playground and lie down in the grass with a book and a drink, grabbing a few precious minutes of respite while their dependants were distracted. Regis had always found the lengths humans went to care for their young curious. No such thing occurred in vampire culture; once one was old enough to feed themselves, which usually only took a decade or two, they were old enough to fend for themselves. Humans, on the other hand, seemed to care for their young well into adulthood and even beyond that.

“How did you come to own a coffee shop?” asked Geralt, drawing his attention away from the children. 

“It’s a bit of a long story,” said Regis.

“We’ve got time.”

“Very well.” Having answered this question for several of his regulars, Regis had the story well prepared. He cleared his throat. “I was an unruly boy in my youth, to say the least. I won’t go into the sordid details of just how unruly I was, but suffice to say, I did things I _very_ much regret, things that shame me to this day."

He paused to gauge Geralt's reaction and saw that the witcher was clinging to his every word. Encouraged by this, Regis continued.

"As I got older and faced some necessary consequences for my actions, I matured enough to realise that my way of life was simply unsustainable. So I bettered myself. I joined the working class. I was briefly a barber and forayed into medical practice, but I found such work unsatisfying and unpleasant.” And dangerous, once mirrors became more commonplace in barber salons and operating theatres. “For a while after that, I simply meandered through life, doing little of interest. I tended to graves for a few years and sold produce on the side so I would have enough to live on. Eventually I decided to take out a loan and and pursue another passion: drink blending. I set up my little coffee shop, hired some people, and a couple of years later, here we are.” This was the abridged version of his life’s story, naturally. Had he the opportunity to divulge his full story, he could go on for hours. He had over four hundred years with which to draw upon, after all.

“Sounds like you’ve led quite the life, Regis,” said Geralt.

“Well, I don’t fight monsters." He took a bite out of his crepe, chewing and swallowing. "I’m sure your life story is much more exciting."

Geralt shrugged. “It gets a little monotonous fighting the same monsters over and over. Have some good stories, but they’re not the sort I’d prefer to be telling.”

Regis cast him a curious look. “Do you not enjoy being a witcher?”

“I like it no more than you liked being a barber or – doctor?”

“Surgeon.” Regis took another bite of his crepe, chewing carefully. Pointed teeth were good for inflicting damage, not so much for masticating one’s food. “I would offer you a job at my coffee shop, but alas, there are no vacancies.”

“Not sure I’d enjoy that any more than I enjoy witchering,” said Geralt, faintly amused.

“Well, it does require one to smile on the odd occasion, and I imagine that would be difficult for you.”

“I smile an adequate amount for a witcher. We’re supposed to be emotionless, after all.”

“So I’ve heard. I’ve also heard it’s a bunch of poppycock and the witchers themselves like to perpetuate it for their own purposes.”

The witcher shot him a sly look. “Wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Mhm, of course.” Regis offered a tight-lipped smile. “But, to clarify, I’m not complaining; I think you look handsome regardless of what expression you're wearing, though I would like to see it be something other than exasperation on occasion. Granted, I feel you have good reason to be in such a state.”

“Not right now, I don’t,” said Geralt, and he smiled, and what passed for a heart in Regis gave a strange sort of flutter.

“What a charmer,” said Regis, chuckling.

He quickly finished off what remained of his crepe, then directed Geralt to a nearby bench that he often sat upon in the late evenings, when the park was absent of all but a few stragglers. Squirrels would come out when the sun descended and he liked to feed them sunflowers seeds he bought from a nearby pet shop. Perhaps he would introduce Geralt to the squirrels, one day.

They chattered for a long while. Longer than Regis had planned, in fact, and he went rushing back to the coffee shop well over an hour late to his shift. Orianna chastised him when he stepped in the door, though she did so with a broad, knowing smile and didn’t sound in the least annoyed at having had to work part of his shift.

“Did it go well?” she asked later that evening, while Regis was preparing to lock up. “You did seem pleased when you returned, but I don’t wish to assume.”

“We took a walk,” he said brusquely. “As friends, before you get any ideas.”

“One would have to be blind to see friendship isn’t what you want from him.”

“What I want doesn’t much matter.” Regis gestured to Orianna. “I’m much too busy for a relationship. I have children to look after.”

Orianna pursed her lips. “You hurt me so, Regis. I am only a few decades younger than you.”

“And yet, they make all the difference.”

* * *

Their walks continued, lengthened, and extended into Regis inviting Geralt out to dinner – as a friend, of course. He was careful to keep that in mind with each outing to ensure he didn’t slip into flirting or otherwise demonstrating attraction. He would have very much liked to reciprocate Geralt’s clear interest, but he didn’t want to put the man through a relationship that would ultimately end in heartbreak. Casual friends was the only thing they could safely maintain.

It was very hard, though, not to indulge Geralt when Geralt asked for more of his time, more of his personal life, and more of _himself_. Regis had to exert more self-control than he had in a very long time. This did not impede his enjoyment of Geralt’s company, however, and he continue to find things he liked about Geralt with each new encounter. The things that had previously bothered him - his brazenness, his reticence, his stoic demeanour - became things Regis appreciated, because beneath them was a man who was honourable, intelligent, kind, and who cared about people far more than he let on (something Geralt professed frustration with after a couple of drinks).

He found himself intrigued with Geralt's friends, as well. He very much wanted to meet the rambunctious Ciri, and the delightful sounding Dandelion, and the enigmatic dwarf Zoltan. For any other person, this would have been the phase in their relationship where they started integrating into each other’s social circles… but Regis could not oblige this social convention, for obvious reasons, so he contented himself with photos and stories.

The way things were wasn't perfect, but Regis was happy. Happier than he had been in a long time. Simply being close to Geralt was enough for him.

But all good things must come to an end.

“Do you hear that?” Geralt asked.

Regis, who had been engrossed in explaining the finer details of drink blending, glanced about him for whatever it was Geralt was hearing. “What, Geralt?”

“I thought…” A pause, and then a sniff.

Regis gave a sniff himself, and smelt immediately what had alarmed Geralt.

A fire.

The Novigrad fire department wasn’t called upon as regularly as one might expect a big city fire department to be. There were perhaps twenty-five fires a year, if that, and the other three hundred and forty days were spent responding to general emergency situations. Unfortunately, this meant they could be halfway across the city when called on for a fire, and that appeared to be the case with the building he and Geralt came upon, as there wasn’t a single emergency responder in sight despite the buildings close proximity to the fire station.

The front door of the burning building had been pushed wide open. People were scrambling out, some carrying children, others their precious earthly possessions. There was screaming, shouting, pleading, crying, and all of it was still barely audible over the roar of the flames and the hiss of people wielding fire canisters struggling to subdue the blaze. On the top floor, where the fire did not appear to have reached, people were trying to climb out of windows, some falling and ending up grievously injured. A couple of children had gathered by a window but appeared too frightened to try descending, sobbing uncontrollably as the flames crawled ever closer. One look at them and Geralt was gone, barrelling toward the building so fast that it took Regis a moment to register that Geralt had moved.

“Geralt, wait!” He leapt after him and caught hold of his arm, preventing him from going diving into the flames. “The fire’s too advanced. Running into it will only serve to get you killed.”

“I can’t stand here and do nothing,” said Geralt, attempting to dislodge Regis' hand and failing. Regis was quite a bit stronger than he’d been letting on.

“You can, and you will.” Regis pulled him away from the building steps, away from the sweltering heat. “Because _I_ will do something.”

Geralt scoffed. “If you’re thinking about calling the fire department, they’ve definitely already been-“

“Just trust me, Geralt.” He gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “The children will be fine. I will ensure it.”

Geralt frowned at him, tense in his grasp, full of adrenaline. “Why would you be any more successful than me?”

“Trust me, Geralt,” said Regis again, and he entered the burning building at a run. He knew, after this, there would be no getting around it; he would have to tell Geralt what he was. But he would not allow children to burn to death regardless of what it cost him.

There was enough of a commotion that it wasn’t hard to slip inside, dematerialise, and slither into the upper floors through the stairwell. It took perhaps a few minutes for him to reach the room the children were huddled in. They came running up to him with pink, snot-smeared faces and thrust their tiny shaking hands into his, grasping onto his fingers. Once he had assured them that they would be fine, he hearded them out the room and down the hall, to a window overlooking an alleyway. He instructed them to hold onto him and then simply carried them down the wall.

Their mother didn’t appear to be among the people who had gathered out front. Regis suspected, by their babbling, that their parents had gone to check the stairwell to see if it was safe to leave, and must have been caught by the flames. He ended up passing them off to a paramedic that had arrived on the scene and watched as they were given shock blankets. The fire truck, too, had finally arrived, and the firemen were in the process of unravelling their hose.

Geralt came up to stand beside him, grabbing him by the elbow. He made no attempt to resist when Geralt pulled him away from the scene and to a vacant area of the street. The smell of smoke and death clung to his clothes.

“You aren’t human,” said Geralt simply, and Regis nodded.

“No, I’m a-“

“Vampire.”

“Yes.” Regis leaned his shoulders into the brick wall behind him, watching Geralt with open wariness. “Vampires are not the only creatures that can withstand great heat – how did you figure it out?”

“You don’t try to hide some of the physical characteristics you have,” said Geralt, gesturing to his hands and face; his long nails, pallid skin, and reddened sclera were indeed suspicious, if one had reason to attribute them to something other than old age. “And I notice now that your shadow is distorted. How did you come to cast one?”

“We have discovered, after some years, that certain materials can be utilised to forge one.” It was by no means perfect, but by wearing materials that didn’t source from animals, from living beings, a vampire could cast a partial shadow. It was enough to trick most people, provided one kept to busy, built up areas where a distorted shadow would be hard to notice.

Of course, Geralt wasn’t most people.

“Your employees…”

Regis hesitated before answering. “They are also vampires.”

Geralt stared at him for a long time, seeming at a loss for how to proceed. At last, after several minutes of silence, he said, “Nothing will be done to them, nor you.” He extracted himself from Regis’ personal space and folded his arms over his chest. A defensive stance.

“You will not hunt me, despite the illegality of my presence?” he asked. Vampires weren’t extended the same rights as humans. If they wanted to own property, they had to consent to being chipped like an animal. “I’m sure I and my comrades would earn you enough coin to live comfortably for the rest of your life.”

“It still wouldn’t be enough,” said Geralt. “Go back to your coffee shop, vampire.”

“Geralt, thank you. This…” Regis trailed off. “It isn’t something I wished to hide from you. I did not want to compromise you or your work, nor the safety of my workers.”

“Bit late for that,” said Geralt. "Don’t expect me to come around again.” He turned around, showing Regis his back as he strode away. Despite the fact their relationship was in shambles, it was more trust than Regis had expected him to display. 

“Need it end like this?” Regis called after him. “A witcher and a vampire – queer friends, but friends all the same.”

“Are we?” asked Geralt, pausing to look back at him. "I barely know you." Regis had to bite down on a wince. 

“I see,” said Regis, and his voice was soft and painfully quiet. “I understand.” He had known it would end this way, with heartbreak, with rejection, and yet there was nothing he could have done to prepare himself for the pain of it. He watched Geralt walk until he had receded from view, then took his own leave.

He worked on autopilot for the rest of the day, unable to keep his focus on something other than Geralt for more than a few minutes at a time. Dettlaff and Orianna both noticed, but they seemed to recognise he needed space and didn’t try to pressure him into conversation about whatever it was that ailed him. As he had just returned from one of his walks with Geralt smelling of smoke and death, they could probably make an educated guess on what had happened.

When he went home that evening, he spent a long time sitting beside his phone and thinking. The thoughts were the kind that, as a younger vampire, he would have suppressed with blood. But lacking that distraction, he was stuck in a vicious, despairing loop.

He tried to convince himself that this was the best outcome he could have hoped for. He was safe, his employees were safe, and they could continue to function the same way they had for decades prior. But he could not shake the dissatisfaction he felt. It was like a bloated parasite in his chest, squirming and spoiling him from the inside out, infecting his every waking thought. It wrought even more havoc on his mood each day the witcher did not show up at his counter and order his customary black coffee with two sugars. Regis had known he wouldn't, and yet he had hoped...

Dettlaff and Orianna asked if he was alright, offered to talk about it, and Dettlaff even brought in cupcakes in an attempt to cheer him up, but he refused their efforts. Not because he didn’t appreciate their help, but because he knew the only one that could drag him out of his depression was himself.

He was an old enough vampire to know angsting about something that would not change unless one put in the effort to change it was the sort of behaviour reserved for vampires much, much younger than him. He was not the reckless, blood-crazed fledgling he had once been, and he decided he would not let himself fall back into the same impotent way of thinking he had been prone to in his youth. With this in mind, Regis made a black coffee with two sugars at the end of his shift - two weeks after the fire - and took a detour on his way home. Geralt had given him his address some weeks back. He lived in a small, dingy apartment in the slums of the city and Regis could practically smell the fisstech in the air as he entered the lobby and ascended the stairs to Geralt’s floor.

The coffee he had brought Geralt had turned tepid by the time he had arrived at Geralt’s door. He knocked.

After a few minutes, the door creaked open and bright yellow eyes peered out. To his great relief, Geralt didn’t shut the door in his face upon seeing him.

“Coffee?” he asked, extending his meagre offering.

Geralt glanced at the foam cup, then back at Regis’ face. “I told you I didn’t want to see you.”

“I don’t recall that.”

“It was implied.”

The door still hadn’t been closed. Good.

“Geralt, I insist you take my coffee.” He moved closer, incautious in his approach. He wanted to show that Geralt’s witcher status didn’t scare him.

“Why did you bring me coffee?” asked Geralt.

“You mentioned I was the only one who made it the way you liked. I thought you might appreciate the gesture,” said Regis.

Slowly, the witcher reached through the gap and accepted the coffee. He took a sip. Regis wasn’t sure what to do, other than watch.

“It’s good,” said Geralt, opening his door a touch more. He leaned a shoulder against the heavily worn frame. “I’ve had your coffee. Are you going to leave?” The way he spoke, and stood, suggested this question wasn’t intended to drive Regis away. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Well, I had hoped you would invite me inside. Make me a cup of tea, perhaps.”

“That would be the polite thing to do.”

A beat of silence. The witcher opened the door wide enough for Regis to fit through.

“I expected more of a spiel, honestly,” said Geralt. “Usually I can’t get you to be quiet for more than a few minutes at a time.”

“Rude as ever, I see. I could prepare a speech, if you'd like to hear one.”

The witcher sighed and stepped away from the door, gesturing in invitation. “Guess I have no choice. Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you,” said Regis.

He slipped inside and surveyed the spartan surroundings of Geralt's apartment as Geralt guided him into the kitchen. He directed Regis to the table and plugged his kettle into the wall while Regis was making himself comfortable on a hard metal chair. The thing didn’t even have a cushion. None of his chairs did.

Geralt pulled a mug and box of teabags out of a cupboard. He didn’t appear to own any tea cups.

“Earl Grey alright?”

“That would be fine,” said Regis, threading his fingers in his lap. “No sugar or milk, please.”

“I know.”

At that, Regis couldn’t help but smile wide enough to show off his serrated teeth. “I’m glad you remembered.”

“Hard thing to forget. We had coffee every time we went out.”

“Except during dinner. You had wine, and I water.”

“Yeah.” The electric kettle bubbled and hissed. Geralt leaned against the counter, watching the steam rise in thin wisps. “That was a nice night," he said, smiling in a sweet, wistful sort of way. 

“Geralt,” said Regis gently, his voice full of love. “I hope you realise that after this, I will simply not be able to let you eject me from your life. That would be intolerable. I tell you this now so you can decide whether or not you want to kick me out, because soon you will not be able to. I will not let you.”

The bubbling increased in volume. Geralt pulled the power cord from its socket and pored the steaming water into the mug, then mixed it with a teaspoon. He left the teabag in.

With the tea done, Geralt joined Regis at the table with the mug and his tepid coffee. He placed the tea before Regis. “Stay,” was all he said.

Regis happily obliged.


End file.
